


Jazz Hands

by xel5451



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Horror, Body Modification, Body Worship, Claude loves it, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dimitri's fingers turn into penises, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xel5451/pseuds/xel5451
Summary: Kink meme fill."A magic spell goes awry, and the Prince's fingers have all turned into penises. Only a true love's handjob to each penis can turn them back to normal."Dimitri is horrified, but Claude is fascinated. After all, who wouldn't want to make their partner climax ten extra times?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Jazz Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are. This [prompt](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=643548) was made for me:
> 
> A magic spell goes awry, and the Prince's fingers have all turned into penises. Only a true love's handjob to each penis can turn them back to normal.

It took some time for the side-effects of the spell to finally kick in.

Luckily, the odd burning and itching sensation had brought Dimitri to the infirmary hours ago, only for Manuela to send him back to his room with some ointment and clear orders to report back should anything change.

A rash they'd hoped, at worst some magic induced burns, and within an hour of getting hit by the rogue spell during Hanneman's lecture without any other signs to show for it, Dimitri wondered if the staff hadn't made a big fuss over nothing after all.

Dimitri wasn't even supposed to have been there. Claude had convinced him to come, and with no other prospect than training for the rest of the day, well... It had made sense at the time, if only in the hope that Claude would whisk him away somewhere again, whisper those ridiculous words to him that made his face heat up, all the way past his cheeks and up to his ears. And perhaps... Maybe even kiss him again, get tempted back to Claude's room to have him guide Dimitri's hands across expanses of skin he'd never dared even think of before.

Claude has a way of obtaining what he wants, and Dimitri has grown happy to oblige over the past few months. It's comfort, company distant from the nightmares that otherwise occupy his thoughts, and perhaps that's why he can fall asleep in Claude's embrace despite the odd sensation still making his hands feel fuzzy.

"It'll pass," Claude had hummed into his ear, chest pressed to Dimitri's back where they lay on his bed, "I'm here. If anything happens, I'll take care of you."

Those, those are the kinds of treacherous words that make Dimitri warm and suddenly aware that his body has use for something other than violence. But in this instance, the promise also helps lull him to sleep, no doubt egged on by the calming tea Claude had brewed for him before rubbing Manuela's concoction over his hands with a curious, clinical precision.

And so another few hours passed, Dimitri and Claude slotted snug and safe together on a far too small dormitory bed. Dimitri wakes first in a jolt of relief, the odd sensation in his hands now gone. He's granted a few precious seconds of respite, enough to untangle himself from Claude's arm thrown possessively over his waist, before he realizes something is terribly, dreadfully wrong.

He's sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, a silent scream echoing between his ears.

This can't be real, Dimitri thinks, this must be a dream, this is a strange dream I'm having because of Claude's terrible jokes and ridiculous thought experiments he's always throwing at me.

Perfectly content to ignore the situation, Dimitri stares at the wall ahead and wonders if he will wake soon, if this will pass, until Claude shifts behind him and in one swift movement props his head on Dimitri's shoulder.

"Cat got your tongue, Princeling? Oh—"

Dimitri immediately folds in on himself, reality crashing down on him when Claude acknowledges the state his hands are in.

"No, Dimitri, please—" they're scrambling, Claude trying to tug at Dimitri's back so he can get a look at his hands, Dimitri closed in on himself and crying silent tears of embarrassment, "it's fine, it'll be fine, just let me have a look—"

"Get off me!" Dimitri shrieks, elbowing Claude off him hard enough that throws him back into the wall with a dull thud. Dimitri panics, torn between the need to flee and his concern for Claude, who groans and rubs his head where it hit the wall.

"Claude, Claude I'm sorry I didn't mean to—"

He must look ridiculous, hands tucked under his arms as he hugs himself to hide them—if you can even still call them that.

"Hey, hey," Claude coos, level-headed as he is, leans forward and strokes Dimitri's face, rests his hand there to calm him, "I told you earlier didn't I? It's going to be fine. Whatever happened, if magic did this, it'll set it back. It's only logical."

Dimitri lets out the breath he was holding, leans into Claude's touch like it's his only lifeline.

"I would like to believe you, but I’m finding it difficult right now."

He closes his eyes, as if that'll help him forget. Not that he can, with how different it feels, how his mind can't register the need to clench his fists, or move his fingers. When his hands feel like, like—

"I know. Well, I suppose I don't know exactly, but—" Claude smiles now, that dangerous mischief Dimitri recognizes all too well settling into the corner of his mouth, "—show me, please? We can go straight to the infirmary. I'll bandage it up for you, find you a cloak of some kind. No one has to know, except whoever needs to help dispel it."

"That's—" A pause. It does make sense, and if Claude hasn't run away screaming yet he's not about to now.

"You want to study it, don't you?" Dimitri asks.

"Of course."

"You won't... Let it change how you see me?"

"Well," Claude moves his hand from Dimitri's face, rubs his arm instead to coax his hands out of hiding, "who knows, I may even like it."

"CLAUDE!" Dimitri shouts, forgetting himself in the moment and releasing his arms to push Claude away, though more gently this time.

Except that Claude of course is faster than him, and he immediately grabs Dimitri's wrist with both hands, confident that Dimitri's fear of hurting him again will be enough to restrain him.

"Oh, it really is, it's—"

"Please Claude," Dimitri cries out, "please let it go, get me a towel to wrap it in, anything!"

Claude gives Dimitri's arm a sharp tug to get his attention.

"No."

"What?"

"Dimitri, this is—this is amazing, I've never read of anything like this happening, let alone considered—saints. Fuck."

Claude has shifted closer, now cradling the disfigured hand in his, running his thumbs from Dimitri’s palm to the base of what used to be his fingers.

"No, no this is terrible!" Dimitri's crying now, he can't help it, it's so bizarre and wrong and his stomach has turned enough that the taste of bile creeps up his throat, "I'm a monster! My fingers are all—"

Before Dimitri can get any more distraught, Claude closes the distance between them with a kiss, the offending hand pressed between their chests. Soft, warm. Entirely unimaginable, but true.

"Please Dima," Claude rasps out, his words already catching like they do when he's wrestling with the most intense of arousal when he nudges Dimitri’s nose, pleads for his attention, "right now, you have eleven cocks, and unless you really, really want me to stop, I would love to find out if I can make you feel good with them. All of them."

And Dimitri honestly did want Claude to stop, at least at first, mostly because of the sheer embarrassment of it. But when their eyes meet, and Claude takes both his—hands, though he’s struggling to use the word—and lets them rest across Claude’s own palms...

Dimitri recalls the first time Claude kissed him, the first time they’d pressed still clothed hard cocks together, and how he’d thought he would die of shame before learning to want this without his stomach knotting up so tight that he could scarcely feel any arousal.

Perhaps this isn’t so different, and if it is temporary, if it does feel good, well...

For the first time, Dimitri glances down at his hands proper, where they rest over Claude’s open palms. Both the boys are now sitting on the edge of the bed, angled towards each other from the kiss. This way, Dimitri doesn’t have to look if he doesn’t want to, but Claude can scarcely meet his gaze, and the other’s distraction leads Dimitri in turn to pay attention, as Claude starts to run his thumbs over the spot where a knuckle disappears under a fold of skin that wasn’t there before.

Somehow the quiet calms Dimitri, who wonders if he’s experiencing the kind of intellectual curiosity that the likes of Claude do in the face of the strange and twisted, or if his mind has simply found a convenient way to ignore the terror of the situation, place control of it in Claude’s more capable, functioning hands. Looking at it with a clearer mind, it isn’t much more than skin. There’s no concern, not if the curse can be reversed, and there’s no need to worry about that until they’ve had Hanneman and Manuela take a look. Where you’d expect joints leading to fingertips adorned with nails, Dimitri’s fingers have softened, smoothed out into what looks like—there’s no other way to say it—smaller, thinner dicks than his own. Foreskin and all, ending in puffy, tapered heads.

“Amazing,” Claude whispers again, hardly paying attention to Dimitri’s face anymore, “the transition is smooth. No scarring nor signs of stretching, despite the change.” 

Then he squeezes one of the limp, penis-like appendages, and Dimitri yelps.

“Sorry,” Claude hardly sounds sorry, turning Dimitri’s hand and inspecting it further, “I was checking for bone. Doesn’t seem to be a surface transformation only. How did that feel?”

Now Claude does shoot Dimitri a quizzical look, though it lasts barely a few seconds before he returns to focus on his objects of study.

“I, I—” Dimitri doesn’t quite know, and he squirms where he’s sat, though he doesn’t try to escape Claude’s attentions. “It feels… Unexpected. Should you be doing that? I… I can’t seem to find words for a-ah—”

Dimitri clamps a hand to his mouth to muffle a moan, a surge of heat coursing through him invited by Claude taking what used to be Dimitri’s little finger and wrapping his own hand around it the best he can, stroking it like he would Dimitri’s own, accurately situated, dick.

“Your fingers have really… Turned into penises, it would seem.” Claude sounds like he does when he’s reading a good book. Or hiding something. The words crawl up Dimitri’s neck in a chill when Claude continues: “Not quite sure how functioning they are yet though.”

“Y-yet!?” Dimitri squeaks, before he screws his eyes shut tight. He’s sweating terribly all of a sudden, and Claude doesn’t stop, Dimitri doesn’t ask him to stop, because for how weird it is, it also feels so- so? Good?

They’re quiet for a few moments, save for Dimitri’s gasps which are mirrored by Claude’s own.  
The awkward exploration of fingertips stroking and squeezing quickly yields results, Dimitri’s new dicks starting to harden, bringing them to attention as if chasing Claude’s touch.

“Lie down for me Dimitri, I want to see if I can get you off.”

Once they’re settled, Dimitri on his back and Claude straddling him, knees snug on either side of Dimitri’s hips, they lose themselves to each other. Where Claude is utterly focused, Dimitri’s consciousness fades as he’s overwhelmed by stimulation. Soon, Dimitri is crying out, throwing his head back when one stroke too many pushes him over the edge in a dry climax.

One down, nine to go.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Claude notes, when the finger he was stroking goes soft once more, “doesn’t look like they can ejaculate. I was ready to eat it up.”

But despite the fuzzy, pleasurable haze, the gentle touches of Claude’s fingertips and the crassness of his words prove too much. Dimitri mumbles in response, tugging weakly against Claude’s hold:

“T-too much Claude,” his words phase in and out of moans, neighboring nonsense, “please, ‘s like… My first time, but too many times, can’t think, ah!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you must be so sensitive,” for his mock-guilty tone, Claude only strokes harder, adds a little pressure even and starts to jerk and tug on two dick-fingers at once, “can’t believe you get to feel me for the first time again. Spoiled Princeling.”

Dimitri cries out and arches up against Claude when he comes this time, his face flushed entirely red, calling Claude’s name over and over.

“Can’t believe I’m getting off your virgin cocks, they’re all so hard for me Dima, you should see yourself. Beautiful, unbelievable—”

There’s no coherent response to be had from Dimitri, and Claude remains merciless as he guides the hand he’s not touched yet to cup his cheek, rubs his face across it and runs his lips over the swollen cockheads, about to take them in his mouth until—

“Claude! Your mouth! S-stop no it’s, so much, too much—”

What a pity.

“Alright, no mouth. But just imagine—”

Dimitri does nod at that, or at least it seems like it when his head jerks back and forth, tongue hanging out of it as if he’s lost all control of himself. Which he has, Dimitri’s gone entirely slack under Claude’s ministrations save for the stiff flesh of his dicks. He’s vibrating from the pleasure, nerves thrumming with it and occasionally making him convulse, which only serves to thrust up against Claude’s crotch, who grinds back down against Dimitri in turn, seeking his own release through the friction of his uniform.

“I could suck you off Dima,” Claude threatens, voice low, “once you get used to it. Wonder how many of your dicks I could fit in my mouth? Fuck, I want it, want to stuff my mouth with your cocks and choke on them, just you wait—”

Claude’s losing count himself now of how many times Dimitri’s come, more concerned with the way his own cock just spent in his pants. It’s heady, the feeling not far off from sex after a night of dancing and strong alcohol, and he never wants it to end. He just keeps going, jerking off each of Dimitri’s dicks until they go soft, moaning every time he dares to ghost his lips over one. It’s a new kind of torture, honoring Dimitri’s request to not take any in his mouth, but licking at the palms of those broad, callused, dick-sporting hands is enough for Claude’s cock get uncomfortably hard all over again. 

But by then, Dimitri’s hands are entirely spent, one soft in Claude’s grasp, the other having fallen to rest at his side.

“Can’t believe it,” Claude comments to a near unconscious Dimitri, not-so-subtly shoving his hand down his own sticky pants to palm himself, “got you off ten times. Ten fucking dicks, oh- ah! Shit!”

Surprising no one but himself, Claude comes a second time and collapses onto Dimitri’s heaving chest.

Another few peaceful hours pass, both of them knocked out by the intense turn of events. It’s dark out when Claude wakes to Dimitri shaking him, the prince’s hands—and fingers—firmly anchored on his shoulders.

“You’re back to normal.”

Dimitri scowls. Claude couldn’t have looked or sounded any more disappointed if he tried.


End file.
